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Hugo walked in, smiling genially at the three people seated behind the long table. A slight blonde woman—no doubt Juliette, the Grand Master—and two men stood as they entered. From their positions at the table, they’d set up the meeting as if they were two opposing forces meeting across the treaty table.
Eric had warned Hugo that the last meeting between the Trinity Masters and the Masters’ Admiralty had been tense, as injuries inflicted by each side had come to light. It appeared neither the Trinity Masters nor the Masters’ Admiralty had been innocent of wrongdoing, and old feelings died hard.
Juliette extended her hand. “Dr. Marchand. I’m Juliette Adams. And these are my advisors, Sebastian Stewart and Franco Garcia Santiago.”
Hugo shook her hand, gesturing to his companion. “It’s very nice to meet you, Grand Master. This is Lancelot Knight.”
Hugo saw Franco’s eyes light up with interest. “Lancelot,” he murmured. “Interesting choice.”
Lancelot tilted his head curiously, and for a moment, Hugo thought he might break his silence. Instead, he merely nodded, then crossed his arms in a way that revealed his thick, muscular biceps.
Juliette studied Lancelot as well. She assessed him coldly, as a general did a soldier, but then one eyebrow notched up slightly—there was some wholly feminine appreciation for his companion mixed in. In truth, gender had nothing to do with it. Lancelot was the most attractive man Hugo had ever seen, and Hugo was straight. Well, mostly. He didn’t believe in labels like that.
“And you are a professor,” Franco said. “In Paris.”
Hugo nodded. “Political science.”
Franco planted his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Can you get me access to the catacombs? Not a tour. Private access.”
“Perhaps I could do this,” Hugo said, slightly confused.
Sebastian held Juliette’s chair, and she took a seat.
“Then you can have whatever you want, as long as I get access to the catacombs. Oh, and a library pass to the Humanist Library of Sélestat,” Franco declared.
“C’est vrai?” Hugo blurted. He and Lancelot hadn’t even sat down yet. This was going to be far easier than he thought.
Juliette grabbed the back of Franco’s pants and yanked him down.
“No, Dr. Marchand. Please excuse my advisor.” She gestured for them to take a seat. Hugo, Sebastian, and Franco claimed chairs—Franco looking disgruntled. Lancelot did not sit.
Hugo glanced over his shoulder at the hulking man and subtly raised one eyebrow. Denying the Grand Master’s offer to take a seat was rude at best, a sign of noncooperation at worst. The two of them engaged in a wordless disagreement, but in the end, Lancelot pulled out a chair and joined them at the table.
Obviously, as a knight, he preferred to stand guard, but Hugo studied the art of politics, human nature, and the moral purposes of political association. In this instance, he felt it was best to appear conciliatory rather than confrontational. Merely arriving with a knight was enough of a statement, proclaiming we’re asking for help, but we are not weak. It wasn’t necessary to drive that point down the throats of the Americans with Lancelot looming over the table like some auburn-haired Thor.
“Your admiral Arthur has told me very little about your business here, Dr. Marchand,” Juliette said. “I hope you intend to be more forthcoming.”
Arthur was the admiral of England, and not Hugo’s admiral at all, but that was a piece of information he would not share. “Of course. First of all, I want to thank you for taking the time to meet with me. My associate and I would like permission to seek out a woman who murdered a member of our society. She fled justice by coming to America, and we believe she is, by birth, an American.”
“Murder?” Sebastian said, speaking for the first time. “That’s a very serious charge. I suppose you have proof?”
Hugo nodded. “Witnesses to the crime.”
“Who is this American?” Juliette asked.
“Alicia Rutherford.”
Juliette glanced at Franco, who shrugged, apparently less interested in a murder than his chance to get into the Paris catacombs. “Not one of ours.”
“Who is she accused of killing?” Sebastian asked.
Hugo considered Juliette’s advisors. They were diametrically juxtaposed, Sebastian questioning everything while Franco was accepting and even nonchalant.
“A man who was highly ranked within our organization. We believe they were lovers.” That was not exactly a lie, but it was an understatement. Alicia Rutherford had killed Derrick Frederick, a member of the Spartan Guard, the elite members who lived with and protected the fleet admiral. He’d been killed in an S&M club, electrocuted to death by a collar Alicia had placed around his neck.
“Lovers?” Juliette’s brows lowered. “The Masters’ Admiralty sent you here to find a woman to deal with a lovers’ spat?”
“As I said, he was highly placed within our society. It is vital that we find her both for the sake of justice, and because we fear she may have sensitive information about our organization.”
